Author Valerie Frankel tests the popular program outlined in the book A Complaint Free World and tries to curb negativity, one gripe at a time.

Times are tough. I'd been saying that a lot lately. On the phone with my sister, I was refining the theme in detail, whining about the economy and free-floating anxiety along with the usual daily snafus. Annoyingly, she refused to join in my gripefest. It was so unlike her.

Then she told me she wasn't allowing herself to complain. In fact, the congregation at her temple, inspired by the book A Complaint Free World by Missouri minister Will Bowen, was attempting to stop griping, moaning, and whining en masse.

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"For God's sake, why?" I asked.

"No need to put more negative energy out there," she told me. "It does more harm than good." As she continued to explain, and as I later read in the book, Bowen's theory was that complaining only exacerbates problems, individually and collectively.

"When we complain," he writes, "we are using our words to focus on things that are not as we would like. Our thoughts create our lives, and our words indicate what we are thinking. It is vital that we control our minds in order to re-create our lives."

The first step in controlling your mind? Become aware of what comes out of your mouth. By Bowen's logic, once you notice your complaints, you'll start to notice your negative thoughts and can learn to reframe them with more positive ones. Then you'll be happier, healthier, and wealthier.

It sounded ridiculous to me. Complaining was the glue that held my emotional life together. I didn't call it complaining, anyway. It was bonding, commiserating, friendship-building. Sure, I might veer toward the negative, but that was just my personality — and the personality of everyone I knew. Besides, the very concept of doing away with complaints was preposterous. Would not griping about the economy help pay the bills?

Then again, complaining wouldn't pay the bills, either. My sister, not complaining for only one day thus far, hadn't yet noticed a new serenity. Which, I pointed out, was technically a complaint. "You're right," she said, "I have to switch my bracelet now." The wrists-on component of Bowen's prescription: Each time you griped, you had to move a rubber bracelet* from one wrist to the other. The physical reminder focused your consciousness on the quest. On his first day of taking the no-complaint pledge, Bowen switched his bracelet so many times his hands got tired. A few months later, he'd achieved his goal of going 21 consecutive days without complaining.

I doubted I could go 21 minutes.

But I was willing to try — especially since not complaining was free. I'd give it a week, and then assess whether I felt less stressed. My husband, Steve, and daughters — Maggie, 13, and Lucy, 10 — agreed to join the fun (see? more positive already). I had to bribe the kids, offering them $100 at the end of the week, minus one dollar for each complaint. To my ears, all they ever did was complain, so I felt sure I wouldn't owe them a dime.

According to Joanna Wolfe, Ph.D., professor of rhetoric at the University of Louisville, most casual griping, such as commiserating over bad weather, inspires rapport. "Two people standing at a bus stop complaining about the wait is a socially acceptable way to form an instant friendship," she says. In one study of complaining in a group situation, Wolfe's subjects averaged 50 expressions of dissatisfaction per hour, or close to one complaint a minute.

A blistering pace that I easily matched. My rants before we left the house ("out of coffee, again" and "can't you move any faster?") did not seem to bond me to my daughters, though. They flinched when I complained, which I hadn't noticed before in my usual morning haze.

"A risk of complaining," notes Guy Winch, Ph.D., "is being seen as a whiner and facing social rejection or a hostile confrontation as a result." In short, my kids might take it personally whether or not my grousing was aimed at them, a thought that did not fill anyone's heart with joy. But Winch, author of the forthcoming The Squeaky Wheel, is dubious about the complaint-free lifestyle. "Squelching our dissatisfaction is not a recipe for psychological well-being," he says. "Complaining has emotional benefits: the satisfaction of venting as a form of human communication. Complaining just to have something to say is a perfectly acceptable form of social interaction."

Another debatably acceptable form of social exchange is gossip. Bowen's against it, believing that talking about someone's problems behind her back is primarily a way to boost your own ego. "I'm implying that I have no such faults so I'm better than you," he says. In this way, "Complaining is bragging. And nobody likes a braggart."

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'Round here, nobody likes a holier-than-thou Pollyanna who refuses to share. Lynn Schlesinger, a psychotherapist in private practice in Summit, NJ, agrees. "Once you get out of middle school, when it can be malicious and dangerous, gossip is usually a variation of exchanging the news with interested parties. Women tell each other stories to connect to their own lives, confirm their values, and validate their opinions."

I recalled the famous Alice Roosevelt Longworth line: "If you haven't got anything good to say about anyone, come and sit by me." My feelings exactly.

But — for experiment's sake — I would resist my urge to be catty. My resolve was tested when a friend called to chat. She had news. A woman we both knew — someone widely considered to be a nasty piece of work — was suddenly out of a job. My friend started reminding me of a few choice moments in our mutual past with the unemployed person. I would have loved to join in, but instead I said, "I'm sure she'll land on her feet. I wish her well."

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On the other end of the line, crickets.

Then my friend said, "Who are you, and what have you done with Val?"

With us deprived of gossip, the conversation stalled. Bowen was right about one thing: Just as an alcoholic had to avoid his old drinking buddies, I'd have to steer clear of my gossipy friends (i.e., all of them). This did not make me feel happy, healthy, or wealthy. It felt lonely. Not that I was complaining!

After an adjustment period, I was certain that my friends would no longer tempt me with delicious, juicy gossip. I'd have only nice things to say about everyone and everything. Man, was I going to be boring.

Day 1 Complaint Tally: 100, more or less. Rubber burns were forming on my wrists.

Day Two: Circle of Strife

The kids started Sunday morning at each other's throats, fighting over who'd clean up the huge mess they'd made in the kitchen cooking pancakes. I couldn't count their complaints about each other ("mean!" "selfish!" "jerk!") fast enough. In two minutes, they each dropped $20.

I did not intervene. Doing so would have been "triangulation" — in Bowen's book, "when you have an uncomfortable situation with someone but discuss the problem with someone else." It was third-party complaining. To avoid widening the gripe circle, I had to let them sort it out themselves. Which I was happy to do until I saw the incredible mess with my own eyes: Batter everywhere. Egg on the counter. A sink full of crusty dishes. Naturally, I had a few things to say about the condition of the kitchen. After I stopped, I had to move the bracelet back and forth about 30 times before I caught up with my mouth. Maggie went to her bedroom, slammed the door, and started instant-messaging with her friends to complain about me (triangulation!).

I imagine Bowen would have frowned on that. But then again, if teenage girls didn't vent to their friends about their mothers, they would surely grow up to be therapy patients. "Too much bottling up over time intensifies negative feelings and gripes and makes them harder to overcome. That's how you get into significant trouble in relationships," says Linda Sapadin, Ph.D, author of Now I Get It! Advice on Living and Loving.

So, yes, people need to vent. But there are limits, even for teenage girls. Amanda Rose, Ph.D., associate professor of psychological sciences at the University of Missouri, conducted two studies of 1,600 girls and boys and found that "excessive talking" about problems is linked with depression and anxiety. What's considered excessive: "When girls hash and rehash every detail, talk about problems when they could be doing something else, and spend the vast majority of their time together talking about problems," says Rose.

When Maggie emerged after just an hour of venting, she did seem to be in a better mood (whew, not an "excessive" case). Still, I stared pointedly at her wrist. Since telling her to switch her bracelet would be, in itself, a complaint about her behavior and was therefore illegal, we had resorted to glaring at one another's wrists to signal a switch. Maggie sighed dramatically and moved her bracelet.

Day 2 Complaint Tally: About 50. Not feeling the serenity yet.

Day Three: Cranky = Me

I was determined to get through the next 24 hours without complaint, but the fates tested my resolve first thing. I woke up to find a warm refrigerator. The milk had soured overnight. When Steve poured it into his favorite breakfast cereal, he got a whiff and cursed. I glared at his wrist, and tapped mine with my index finger. He waved a finger at me, too.

We'd had the same fridge problem only six months ago. I felt entitled to a free repair. How to explain my reasoning to the GE rep without complaining? According to Bowen, a statement of fact expressed in a friendly tone was fine. I made the call. The GE rep agreed not to charge for the repair (lulled by my friendly tone?). But she couldn't send a repairman for a week. In my previous life, I'd have expressed my dissatisfaction at gusty length. Instead, I confirmed the appointment, thanked her, and hung up. It wasn't her fault. Blaming is a form of complaining, too. I wondered how to tell Steve the no-fridge-for-a-week news in a non-kvetchy way.

Bowen recommends positive language choices to replace negative-sounding words. You say "problem," Bowen says "opportunity." A "setback" in Bowenese is a "challenge." "Struggle" = "journey." "Demand" = "appreciate." "You did this" = "I created this." "No fridge for a week," I said to Steve. "What a great opportunity to face a challenge on our journey in the life we create for ourselves."

Steve nodded and said, "I'm seeing a lot of pizza in our near future." Since pizza was his favorite food, this was definitely not a complaint. But the optimistic language felt fake — like a politician who ignores facts and just tells you what you want to hear. Who was I kidding?

I called Marty Markowitz, president of the great borough of Brooklyn (a.k.a. home), to ask about semantics versus reality. "You can be optimistic and realistic at the same time," he said. "I know times are tough and people are hurting, but if you've got a sour puss, everyone feels sour along with you. Those of us in leadership positions have to reinforce the positive instead of dwelling on the negative." He encouraged me to count my blessings. Yes, my fridge was broken, but I could afford take-out. I still had a house to keep my broken fridge in.

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I tried to channel Marty, to put on a sunshiny puss. But it was a struggle — I mean, a journey. Clearly I had no future in politics.

Day 3 Complaint Tally: A couple dozen.

Day Four: Gag Rule

Experts say it takes at least three weeks to really change a habit. I figured the only way I would get through an entire day without complaining was not to speak at all.

I kept my lips buttoned when one of our cats peed on my hat. I smiled benignly when Last-Minute Maggie informed me that an art project was due tomorrow and I would have to buy her supplies. I nodded when Steve, an actor/musician, announced he had auditions all day and a rehearsal that night and would not be available to pick up the kids from school. I was on work deadline and needed the full day to meet it, which I was not going to get. Just another opportunity on my journey, which I appreciated very, very much.

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Bowen believes that bumps (bounces?) will often smooth over if you have faith they will. I took a deep breath and tried to believe something would give. Incredibly, it did. A mom called to set up an after-school playdate with Lucy at her house. That would buy me a nice chunk of time. I thanked her and got down to work.

Hours later, my work finished, I picked up Lucy. The mom greeted me at the door and immediately asked if I'd heard about a flood on the subway and the long delays. Complaining about the subway is a New Yorker's way of saying hello. I shook my head — hadn't heard, no — but kept quiet. Obviously slighted by my failure to engage, she hustled Lucy and me out the door. I felt guilty. She'd done me a favor, and I insulted her.

The evening wore on, but I remained quiet. Maggie worked on her project; Lucy did her homework. I was helpful and patient. The strain was killing me. I got into bed, my bracelet on the same wrist as it had been that morning. I'd done it. Instead of proud, though, I felt frustrated and exhausted.

Steve arrived home much later than expected, smelling like beer. Ordinarily, I'd have had something to say about that. But I kept my mouth shut. As Bowen contends, "jabbering doesn't improve our time with [loved ones], it makes it less precious. Silence allows you to reflect and to carefully select your words...rather than allowing your discomfort to cause you to spout off a laundry list of grievances."

Schlesinger would advise her patients to tell their spouses how they really feel: "If a woman can't complain to her husband about his staying out late and not calling, she'll feel passive and powerless. Expressing only a portion of the full range of your emotions isolates partners from each other, which is how marriages start to fall apart." Complaining in a marriage, she adds, is an effective way to "establish the rules of acceptable behavior."

When Steve got into bed, he braced for a verbal attack — my usual highly effective way to get my real feelings across. He deserved to be read the riot act for having kept me waiting and worrying while he was at a bar with his friends. But I said nothing.

Surprised, relieved, Steve smiled, kissed me, rolled over, and started snoring. I would have loved to kick him awake and spew venom until dawn. Instead I simmered, wide awake, for an hour. I felt frustrated, helpless, depressed — like I'd lost my voice. In silent reflection, I concluded that buttoning my lips might have made my husband happier, but it made me miserable.

Day 4 Complaint Tally: Bitter goose egg.

Day Five: Snap!

We took the kids out for a movie and dinner. The movie? It was a sequel, and we had high hopes. It stank. Steve said, "Well, that was a waste of time and money," and I glared at his bracelet. He shook his head, but switched sides. The complaint-free life seemed designed to suck the fun out of everything, even trashing a lame movie over dinner.

So there we were, staring at our Diet Cokes, not letting ourselves say anything interesting. With no other choice, we all took to eavesdropping on the three people at the table next to ours. One man did all of the talking, about his mother in the hospital — how she hated his girlfriend, who wasn't being supportive of him during this difficult time; how his siblings were shirking their duty toward her; and how she was hardly appreciative of his efforts.

It was painful to listen to, and not only because the guy's life was a disaster. He didn't strike a single hopeful note in his 30-minute spiel. By dessert, his friends looked like they had gone 10 rounds with George Foreman. His complaint-oriented attitude was clearly making his problems worse.

I'd been there myself, having cared for my first husband during a losing battle with cancer. During those awful months, it struck me now, I'd rarely complained. I'd bitten my lip, found my grit, and done what needed to be done. Instinctively, I had stayed positive because only optimism had been conceivable, given the alternative. It had gotten me through the roughest year of my life.

A complaint paradox: When I'd had genuine hardship, being complaint-free had come naturally to me. Looking back, I found myself feeling grateful for what was good about my life. Gratitude did stop complaints in their tracks. If I were ever in a desperate situation again, I was sure I'd assume the same attitude. "A certain mellowness creeps up on you in your 40s," says Schlesinger. "You're less judgmental, and feel deeper gratitude for small blessings."

Maturity might reduce complaining — but only for those of us who weren't born kvetchy. "Genes determine a big portion of your personality," acknowledges Schlesinger. "Even when something wonderful or horrible happens to you, studies show that within six months, you revert back to experiencing the world as you did before. You might be able to willfully limit how much you complain, but you can't reset your genetic code." As for the positivity business — the idea that not complaining can make you happier — Schlesinger says, "People don't operate that way. I agree it's useful to sensitize yourself to how much of a complainer you might be. What makes people colorful and interesting, though, is the full spectrum of emotions. Ask yourself, 'Is it worse to be bitchy or bland?'"

I think we can all agree it is far, far worse — a crime against nature — to willfully force yourself to be bland. Plus, after nearly a week of forcing my family to change their colors, I was decidedly unhappier.

That tore it. I had to end the Bowen-ization of our family. Honestly, what was the harm in trashing a bad movie or indulging in a little gossip? It was fun! And fun felt good, and feeling good was good for the soul. The specter of negative energy hadn't come to get me in my sleep. And it wouldn't, even if I complained about slow service and long lines.

"Airing grievances is far healthier than swallowing them," says Sapadin. "That said, if all you do is wallow, you're operating from a powerless, helpless position. The ideal strategy is to state your complaint, get it out quickly, and then think about solutions. If the problem has no solution, like a traffic ticket, just call it one of life's bummers and move on."

The fridge? A bummer. The drunk husband? Prime target for airing grievances. Last-Minute Maggie's art-supply demands? A problem in need of a solution. A friend with gossip? The only problem there was denying my love of gossip, too. A bad movie sequel? A great opportunity to inspire rapport.

I turned to Steve and said, "You're right. That movie was terrible. The animation was second-rate, and the popcorn was stale. And I'm not switching my bracelet. I'm taking it off and throwing it away."

Steve removed his bracelet, too, and said, "Thank God that's over."

Maggie and Lucy peeled off their bracelets and asked in unison, "What about the money?"

"I'll tell you what," I said. "Why don't you spend what you've got left — and it's not much — buying us dinner?" This brought on a swell of whining that would have eradicated their allotment of dollars in haste. We agreed it was a wash.

Day 5 Complaint Tally: Irrelevant.

Day Six: I'm Baaack

Woke up, bitched at the alarm, yelled at the girls for taking forever to get dressed — and felt like myself for the first time in a week.

I give props to anyone who could be complaint-free. But I am not one of those people. (Nor is my sister. She lasted only two days.) I prefer to express, with my own words, a wide range of emotions — good, bad, and ugly. I'll bet Bowen would think I quit too soon. I say I lasted long enough to gain this insight: Between wallowing and swallowing, there's a solid middle ground. That's where you can find me, even if the food is terrible and the lines are long.